


Stand by My Fire

by Aglarien7



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28977066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aglarien7/pseuds/Aglarien7
Summary: Translated by myself from ChineseBeta: Ria
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Kudos: 1





	Stand by My Fire

Stand by My Fire

*AU-prostitution

*Underage(17 years old)

Cigarette butts scattered around the windowsill, a broken spoon stuck in the crack of the door. 

Peter Doherty looked around the room. With empty walls and a mattress barely holding up on a boxframe that is suspiciously low for its purpose. Nothing to complain about this place.

For a place that costs 10,000 rubles a month in the center of the city of Moscow, anything more than a mattress was beyond expectations. 

Peter Doherty looked at the man leaning on the doorframe, who was with black curly hair and in a leather jacket, smoking quietly. Peter hesitated. Not that this place was not good enough, he just didn't know what to expect from this roommate, the landlord. “I'll cover the heating bill, too,” The man said, knocking his cigarette against the door frame , dropping the ash. “Anyway, do you want the room, high school student?”

“I’m not a high school student.”Peter whispered, angrily forcing himself to make up his mind, “Yes. I…well, I'll give you a month’s rent first.”

Not long after, having dropped off his bags, Peter headed to the supermarket, and was soon lost among shelves of Russian labels, still thinking what the landlord had said earlier... 

Even those unfamiliar Russian letters on the shelves started to make him uncomfortable. 

“To be honest, in this city area you are unlikely to find another place as cheap as this,” the man had said at the time. His gaze made Peter look away uncomfortably, afraid to make eye contact with him, “But I must warn you, I… well, every night I'll bring back a different man, in my own bedroom next door, of course. But they’ll all fuck off by the morning. Take the room if you can put up with that kind of noise. Although the walls between our rooms are not very soundproof,” He surely wasn’t talking about dating different men. Peter’s only 17, but he can tell the difference. 

Although Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly why, maybe it was the cheap perfume the man wore, or the suspiciously expensive white powder that remained between his nostrils as he spoke, or that his eyes had inadvertently swept over him, as if Peter was completely naked in front of him... or all of the above. In short, Peter understood that the only way the man could afford the cigarettes and drugs was to sell himself. 

“I sleep well at night,” said Peter carefully. The man raised an eyebrow at him, hoping for a final answer. In a daze, Peter agreed to visit the house, and then paid the first month’s rent in cash. He was now a little dejected, and felt that his head was not in the right place to lose his peace of the night in order to save ten thousand roubles. Sleeping is OK, even if there is that, that sound, he can sleep, but if one night, he does not sleep, and want to write poetry, then what should he do?

He'd go out in the middle of the night, by the light of the street lamp, or the moonlight. Peter thought. Peter was so sanguine that, not until he went home in the evening and sat down in front of his diary and wrote down the idea did he realize that Moscow was not his England after all, and it was early autumn—it was freezing out there—so he can’t be out on the street at 2:00 in the morning. 

He went to bed with that idea in mind, and dreamed of mirrors, moonlight, and Absinthe.

For the first ten days, everything was alright. Peter came to Moscow on a scholarship, took half of the classes on his schedule at the Moscow University, and skipped the other half. He spent long time wandering Moscow’s bazaars, chatting casually with stall owners in his rudimentary Russian. Local people tended to like him. 

His roommate, to his surprise, wasn’t around much during the day. It was as if the man worked at night and had another job to do in the day. Peter had picked up his mail from the postman, and it was addressed to Carlos Barat, that was how Peter got his full name. That man had only told him that his name was Carl, and after that day, they barely spoke. Peter slid the letter under the door. 

At night… Well, it’s a bit noisy at night. Since his roommate, for some reason or another, liked to scream so loud that Peter’s ears were burning. Carl sounded like a needy, ashamed, repressed actor of a porno movie, similar to the one Peter saw a few years ago when he was breaking the rules to sneak into a porno movie theater with other students. Perhaps all people sounded alike during sex. Peter tried to put that idea into his mind, collected himself, and began to write a line of verse. 

Time passed quietly, days after nights. Peter forgot to close the window one day and the snow made the quilt wet. He had to dry the quilt on the radiator. But he had not lived in the north before, and did not know that you should not leave the quilt on the radiator when there's no one around. He just went out in the afternoon to buy a cup of coffee, and came back to see the bedroom shrouded in red light. Carl rushed out of the next room cursing in Russian and glared at him. 

“Where… where is the fire extinguisher?” Peter asked in a panic. The fire was too big. Carl waved his hand impatiently, apparently the old apartment was in such disrepair that there was no functional fire-fighting measure. Suddenly Peter thought of something and called out, “My journal!” He left his book of poems in the room.

Peter was panicking. He pushed open the door and tried to run into the fire, but a strong hand was on his shoulder. Peter didn’t expect Carl to have so much strength. He looked back, and Carl rolled his eyes at him. “Wait here,” Carl said to him. Carl left, quickly rushed back, his large scarf wet, covering his nose and he entered the room without saying anything. 

In less than 20 seconds, Carl came out and shook his head. “There’s a little pile of ash next to the radiator that looks just like your poetry journal.” Peter burst into tears and turned his back to Carl, only to turn back in embarrassment a few seconds later, because he had to talk to Carl about putting out the fire and paying. They stopped the neighbors from calling the fireman (they can't afford it anyway), and it took about half an hour to put out the fire (the whole room had burned down). There was not much in the room, but the radiator had to be fixed, the walls were blackened, which would cost him dearly. Peter could call his parents and ask them to send him some more money, but he would inevitably be scolded by his father. He pondered over that and decided, if he can’t afford bread next month, he can call his sister Amy-Jo and ask for 5,000 rubles. Carl counted the money with him, smoking a cigarette, watched him shove a wad of money into his hand, him apologizing in a low voice. Peter went back to his room, thinking of the money he needed to buy new quilts and clothes, thinking of the lost book of poetry, and as he sat on the floor, tears came pouring down again. 

That night he rolled himself up into a ball with his new quilt and threw on all the rest of his clothes, but without the heat, it was still not warm, and in the middle of the night he could not sleep but stomped around the room instead, and soon Carl knocked on his door. 

“Hi?” Carl poked a disheveled head through the door. “Must be cold. Do you want to sleep over in my room?”

“No.” Peter said. 

Better not get in the way of business, right? 

Carl looked up at him for five more seconds, silent. He pulled his head back and closed the door. 

Peter borrowed some old clothes from a classmate for a few days, and then the radiator was fixed. But, after the fire, Peter was having a bad time. Such a bad time. Four months of poetry gone. He tried to rewrite some of them from memory, but most of them were not as good as they were. He took it out on himself and threw the pen on the bed—not on the floor, he couldn't afford a new one. And he was so poor that he could not console himself by overeating, which was aggravated by the fact that the rubles he had begged from his sister were only enough for white bread and water. He even felt drowsy, spoke more indistinctly than before, went out to fewer classes, sulked at himself, sulked at the radiator, sulked at the fact that Russian men of letters did not write about radiator fires in their works, thus failing to caution him against it. Insomnia from such mood swings was the main reason one night he wandered down the hallway and ran into Carl. 

“I drank a bit much this afternoon, had a nap, and now I can’t sleep,” Carl spoke first, explaining to him why he was still awake. Peter glanced at Carl’s room. The door was ajar and the room silent. No clients tonight. 

Peter forced a smile and said: “Thank you for helping me, rushing into the fire the other day...” he never thanked him for that, but he was very moved, moved and grateful, all the other people that he knew would never have wanted to save poetry for him under those circumstances. People a little older than him tend to regard his passion for poetry as pure madness. They say poetry won't pay for bread. “It's ok,” Carl told him. “Too terrible that the poetry got burned.”

Maybe even Carl thought Peter's face was too pale and puffy, the dark circles under his eyes too thick: he couldn’t help but leant over and looked at them very closely. Peter didn’t move. He stared back quietly. 

”... Are you English?” Carl asked suddenly. 

“Yes,” said Peter, “I was born in Hexham...” Carl’s face revealed that he knew the little English place. “I’m half English,” Carl said. “got ancestors from France and Russia though.” “No wonder you speak English so well,” Peter said.

Carl burst into laughter, almost choking: “Of the hundred Englishmen I know, not one would say I speak English very well!” Accent and all that. Oh, Peter, you may not know, but I was born in England and moved to Moscow with my mother as a teenager. I learned Russian later.”

“You speak both languages quite well,” said Peter sincerely.

“Thanks.” Carl rolled his eyes. “You can’t sleep tonight, can you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I also speak some other language.”

Soft, warm lips pressed against his, and Peter froze in place. Carl was kissing him. Peter was barely able to feel his own heartbeats as Carl's lustful tongue stirred in his mouth. Carl held the back of his neck with one hand and continued the kiss, sliding the other hand slowly down into his shirt and groping around his waist as if playing instruments. Their crotches rushed together.

Peter’s mind went blank, and as Carl’s hand slipped down from his waist into his underwear, he suddenly realized that his own cock was already hard, pressed against Carl’s thigh, though Carl's hadn’t even begun to get hard.

“Uh... No, uh...” Peter panicked. Carl’s hands stopped for a moment, but he was still rubbing Peter’s crotch through the fabric. Carl looked up at him, his blue eyes misty.

“I. . .”Peter was speechless, but his expression, his hesitancy, even his cock, suggested that he didn't mean to resist, rather just shy. Carl knew that. Carl took one look at him, wrapped him in his arms, and rubbed the top of his hair with one hand as if telling him he's a good boy.

“There's nothing else to do tonight anyway...” Carl whispered in his ear. “Come and lie down in my room.”

Peter blinked, still hesitating.

Carl kissed him again, still full of lust, still skilled, slowing down a bit—so good itmade Peter wonder if that's a part of being treated by a professional. Peter whimpered under the kisses and was dragged into the room by Carl.

Carl’s bed was much larger than Peter’s and covered with new sheets, but the mattress underneath looked definitely dirtier. Carl kicked the door shut and reached for Peter’s clothes.

Peter held out his hands, too, awkwardly trying to unbutton Carl’s shirt. He only popped open two or three buttons before Carl fell on the bed with him and rolled over. Carl’s clothes, pulled apart to reveal half his shoulders, hung loosely over him.

Peter took his shirt off. Carl leaned over, caressing his cold, erect nipples with his mouth, and his hands swiftly pulled down each of their pants. Peter closed his eyes, for his eyes could not bear to see, he knew only that he was as hard as fuck, and that there were other emotions as strong as lust, and he could not tell what they were, but he was lost. Another passionate kiss, this time much wetter. Carl fetched a condom beside the bed and put it on him expertly and quickly. Peter put his head on Carl’s shoulder, feeling Carl's fingers touched his cock... he was going insane.

“What position would you like?” Carl asked, not expecting an answer from the guy who couldn’t open his eyes. It’s just so funny to see Peter’s cheeks take on a deeper blush. Carl slowly repositioned himself, lying on his back, his eyes and fingers never leaving Peter’s body. He sat Peter on top of him, guided him with his hard cock against his own entrance, and ran his fingers across his back.

Peter tried to push in, but couldn’t. He rubbed and rubbed at the entrance. He couldn’t get in. He opened his eyes in a panic, straightened up his body, adjusted the angle, and tried to thrust in. Now the tip was in, but he couldn’t get the rest of it in smoothly, he tried a few more times, and it slipped right out.

“Oh no,” Carl said. “This wouldn’t be your first time, would it?”

Carl pinched Peter’s nipples and looked at him.

Peter mumbled a couple of words that even himself wouldn't understand what it was, and he tried again, held Carl’s hip in one hand and tried to push it in. The warm sensation on his hand made him almost scream. He moved his hand away, tried to pump it, and it slipped out again.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Peter apologized in no more than a whisper, not daring to look at Carl. He then held out his hands again. But Carl held his hand, gesturing that Carl shall take over this time.  
Carl grabbed Peter by the hip, pulled him into place, and finally got the right angle, but—now Peter’s not hard enough. The semi-soft cock glided disappointedly around the orifice. Nervous and ashamed Peter was, but the more ashamed he was of his inexperience, the less likely he was to get hard. They tried a few more squishy poses, like a drunk fumbling around with his keys to open the door.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled again, almost completely not erected. Carl shook his head, took him in his arms and gave up. Carl’s fingers were still caressing Peter’s hair, like a long-time lover.

Peter dropped his head, perhaps just to apologize, and began to kiss Carl on the chest, drawing a gentle circle with his tongue around Carl's tiny nipples, and then all the way down, kissing the belly, the hairy area, and finally wrapped around Carl’s cock.

”... oh.” Carl groaned briefly and moved his hips. Peter tried to swallow the whole thing, the tip of it pressed against the back of his throat, rubbing back and forth, Peter fought the nausea, tightening his cheeks, squeezing Carl’s cock, up and down. He felt like being stabbed with a sword.

A while later, Peter wrapped his tongue around the head and caressed it back and forth. He turned his head and twisted his lips around the cock, slowly sinking down, trying to get Carl’s penis as far as he can, sucking it so hard that it made his cheeks sore. Carl gasped. Peter tentatively stretched two fingers into Carl’s hole, and this time they slid in smoothly, hot and wet and sticky with the sound of water as he thrusted.

Carl's hands were in his hair and pressed his head to make it go deeper. Peter’s eyes went black, and he was pressed in again and again, as he struggled to keep his fingers to the rhythm of Carl’s hands, though it was not easy.

Carl quickly lost control of himself, pushing Peter’s head down again and again, spreading his legs to get Peter’s fingers to push in harder. At last he began to moan, lower and hoarser than Peter had ever heard through the wall before, with his ass absorbing Peter’s fingers. It wasn’t long before Carl spat out a couple of dirty words, and it took Peter a while to realize that his finger was in the right place.

Carl melted under his fingers and under his tongue. Peter thought. He was filled with pride, as if an Ottoman soldier finally conquering sacred Constantinople, or one who won the Battle of Waterloo. This body trembled, contorted, lost itself, and every quiver of the body and every sigh was beautiful. Peter played with it, became obsessed with it, and completely forgot about the intense nausea and the ache in his cheeks, going in and out as seriously as writing a poem. Carl pulled on his hair, uncontrolled, pushed in deep, and ran his fingers across his jaw, his nails across his neck.

Finally, Carl released into his mouth. Most of the liquid hit so deep, it just went straight down his throat. Carl folded up his upper body, held his head back, and came trembling. Peter reluctantly let go of Carl’s cock and tried to jerk him off a few more times. Carl whined and moved his hands away.  
Peter came upwards like a tired little animal, and Carl took him in his arms.

Peter tried to say something, but his throat was hurting. Carl took one look at him, didn’t know what to say, and leaned his head against him. Then Carl put his hand on Peter's heart, feeling its steady beat, and Peter followed him, placing his hand on Carl’s heart. For a moment Peter was in a daze. Were they strangers who barely spoke, or were they lovers who had been in love for a long time? Why did they do that? 

“You were great, Pete,” Carl said to him. “Take a break, we'll do more later?”

“Do...” Peter was going to say. Do you still want to continue? But he couldn’t say it. So many thoughts raced through his head, he still doesn’t know why Carl brought him to bed tonight. But he just wanted time to stop right here, right now. He nodded and put his tentative hand across Carl’s chest. Carl didn’t move.

Fear crept back into Peter’s mind: Of course, perhaps he should have refused in the first place. In capital letters. MAYBE HE SHOULD HAVE SAID NO.

Carl probably thought that after tonight, Pete would still be okay with living next door, listening to the voices, but Pete... suddenly realized that he wasn’t as open-minded and fearless as many of the characters in the literature he’d read. Peter Doherty is a coward. Once he finds something, he doesn't want to lose it..

Fear screamed in the back of his mind, and Carl, who was holding him, didn’t know it. Carl turned to look at him and touched his hair.

“It’s really not that hard, oral sex.” Carl says casually as if discussing cocktail recipes, “It really depends on how much you are willing to do. The trick is you can get it done quite quickly when you don’t want to. Well, I never liked long oral sex myself, or deep throat, or doing it on my knees unless it was double the money. So...”

They looked into each other’s eyes, Peter not knowing what Carl was trying to say, and Carl’s lips moving as if he's desperate to say something, but he couldn’t.

It’s hard to know what Carl was thinking. Peter thought. Of course he couldn’t understand, and he kept getting lost in Carl’s blue eyes... 

“Shall we continue?” Carl said gently but eagerly, rubbing his inner thigh against Pete’s crotch. Blood rushed into Peter’s head, and he felt his mind freezing again. He let Carl climb on top of him, let Carl take the initiative. Even if Carl would slit his throat, he wouldn't care. However, all Carl did later that night was just... entertaining him.

It felt like heaven.

When it finally ended, Peter found himself buried in Carl’s shoulder, crying. His soul seemed to have left his body, floating in the air and looking down at them both. Pete wasn’t just sobbing, he was crying out of control. Carl patted the young boy on the back, puzzled. 

“I will never be the same...” Peter said.

Carl raised an eyebrow, trying to understand.

“Is losing your virginity that heart breaking?” Asked Carl. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s that I finally understand what one can do to another, what exists beyond our will, our common sense, even our dreams, and... when it’s gone, it doesn’t care what you think. When I know that, I’m not the same person I used to be,” Peter said, rambling. Carl frowned as he struggled to make sense of what Peter meant.

Peter went on: “I don’t have anything to give you but I… if I could, I would. You can ask me for anything. But it’s not because we slept together tonight, and you’re not trying to sell it. I realized it too late. I shouldn't have gone into this ugly spiral. It would be best if we all live our lives in peace, but moonlight has left, and the darkness came upon us with the heat...”

“I didn’t really think it was that complicated,” Carl said. “I was just wandering the hallway at night, and you seemed unhappy, and I thought we could spend the night together.”

Peter was silent for a moment, like a silent black swan in a fairy tale, unable to express his true feelings in front of his lover. He bowed his head, and with much effort, lifted the covers heavily, got out of bed, and began to put on his shirt and trousers.

Carl never took his eyes off him.

“I’m sorry,” Carl said, “If I. . .”

“No, you didn’t,” Peter interrupted.

Peter grabbed his stuff, opened the door, and Carl pulled up behind him.

“Think of it as a gift, okay?” Carl said. “Everything that happened tonight. Do not let it weigh you down.”

Peter simply said: “Good night, Carl.”

“Good night, Peter. It’s almost dawn. Maybe it’s time to say good morning.”

Peter went back to his room, to his bed, and he couldn’t sleep. To make matters worse, he was probably going to be awake for many more days, which annoyed him, too. He was tossing and turning in bed, thinking of Carl.

What was Carl trying to say before he rolled over on him and rode him hard? Peter’s trying to dig it out. Carl said blow jobs weren’t that hard... and then he stopped speaking. Carl had this look in his eyes that he didn’t understand…

It suddenly occurred to Peter: Carl was saying that he never liked giving blow jobs himself to clients, whereas Peter went to great lengths to deep throat Carl... Carl was probably trying to say that he knew how much Peter loved him.

The idea took root in Peter's mind like the words on Mose's tablet. Peter rolled back and forth a few more times, and by noon he was sound asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Translated by myself from Chinese  
> Beta: Ria


End file.
